


Götterdämmerung

by Vivian



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Fix-It, Literary References & Allusions, Love, M/M, Post TWOTL, Sexual Content, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 07:48:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6461905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian/pseuds/Vivian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>—You pulled me out of the sea, Hannibal whispers at dusk.<br/>Will doesn't answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Götterdämmerung

 

_άνευ δε σου πάσα μεν η οδός δια σκότους_

_(without you every way leads through darkness)_

 

**i.**

 

He slides his arm around Hannibal's neck. They fall.

And Will makes a wish.

 

The water is cold and hard. The impact crushes all air out of his lungs, he can hear his bones break and darkness claims him black as night. Suddenly, pain. Salt water in the cut on his cheek, in his nose and mouth. He struggles. He shoves himself to the surface, he does not think. Air. He looks around, he is alone. Blank. Underneath the surface again. His eyes burn. He comes back up. There's no—A shadow. It's him. The waves pull them in. Will swims to him, grabs him. Hannibal is limp and heavy. His eyes are dim, they fall shut. Will pulls him closer and starts moving towards the shore.

He swims until he thinks he can't move anymore. His feet hit ground and the sun rises behind the clouds. Blood-red light seeps into the skies as Will pulls them out of the womb of the sea.

 

 

**ii.**

 

Hannibal's arm slung around his shoulder. Will feels no pain. The earth is curving around him. Sizzling darkness closing in like a swarm of flies. Such noise the devil makes.

There's a way up the cliff. Hannibal's breathing is flat but quick, he can't walk, his leg broken. They won't make it. Will keeps going, Hannibal's breath at his neck. They're alive. They're both alive.

He stumbles and they go down. Will's unconscious before he hits the ground.

 

 

**iii.**

 

Will wakes in a white room. The soft buzz of machines. Harpsichord. Bach. Orange evening light warm on his face. His left arm in a Gilchrist's bandage and more gauze underneath his chest. He can feel a cut from his his lowest rib down to his pubis when he tries to sit up. The pain is nauseating. There's a needle in his arm and a tube connects him to a see-through bag filled with fluid swaying gently on a post. He turns his head and sees him.

Hannibal's eyes are closed. A machine measures his heart-rate.

Will sinks back into sleep.

 

When he wakes again a woman sits next to Hannibal's bed. Her back straight, not a tremble moving her, still as stone, a sentinel. He coughs. She turns around.

—You, Will rasps. Her face pale. Grief has cut into her like a knife.

—If he dies, Chiyoh says with a voice like autumn rain, I _will_ kill you.

Will coughs out a laugh and his heart beat quickens. Chiyoh stands up and walks over to him, looks at him. He cannot bear to meet her eye. She turns and leaves.

So she saved them and brought them here. Some private clinic. Expensive. Discrete. Will tries to move up and get a look at the name on the sheet usually tied to the end of the bed but the dark moves in before he is upright.

 

Dr Jane Thackery, a tall woman in her late forties with perfect white teeth, informs him that he has lost a kidney and a spleen. She gives him no information on Hannibal and something in the way she speaks makes him shiver.

 

There are nights he prays that Hannibal will die. That the machines fail, that the doctors come too late. Just like that.

There are nights Hannibal sits at the foot of his bed. His back to him, but his head turned. His profile in the moonlight. The lines sharp, the shadows soothing.

 

He wakes with terror. He wakes with light. He's suspended in the shadows, he breathes in night and he breaths in day. His thoughts are metallic. Blood and time. A clockwork.

 

Until he can stand, Dr Thackery says, it may take at least two more weeks. If not longer. He might have trouble standing afterwards, or walking, or having an erection. He is lucky not to be paraplegic. They had to slice him open from his lowest rib to his pubis, sew his stab wounds, take out the torn kidney and spleen, then sew him back together, and make sure he pissed at least 240ml every six hours with no blood in it. So far it has all gone exceptionally well. Will smiles bitterly at that.

 

It is in those hours between midnight and dawn when darkness reigns and morning is unreachable that Hannibal wakes. Will's eyes fly open when he notices the change in Hannibal's breathing.

Neither of them speak.

There's a tightness in Will's chest, strangulating, and he grips the bed sheet.

Hannibal makes a soft, choked sound. Like revelation. Church candles flickering around them. The smell of olibanum.

 

—You pulled me out of the sea, Hannibal whispers at dusk.

Will doesn't answer.

 

 

**iv.**

 

Will dreams of New Orleans. Of the sickening heat and the cicadas screaming. The stench. The filth. The warm summer nights and the snare around his neck. The city of the dead. How it had lured him, how he had abhorred it, how he had fallen in love with it.

He dreams of walking along Decatur, passing that candy shop he never went in. He dreams of the swamps. Quiet except for the boat motor, trees old and pale, their green fading into the sky, the water, the air. Alligators with scaled backs and soft bellies, those ancient predators, soundless in the water. Sometimes he had dreamt about being in there with them, frightened, alone, not seeing but knowing them close. Sometimes he had dreamt being one of them.Trailing a boat. Prey.

He dreams of eating them. Their meat so tender.

 

The weeks they stay at the hospital pass slowly. Each breath feels stolen from death. Will feels like a thief. He has stolen Hannibal from death, too.

Hannibal, who looks at him with a warmth that is unbearable. Who speaks to him softly. And yet Will knows what creature lies awake, knows and shivers at the thought of it. They have both bathed in the blood of the dragon, but no oak leaf has fallen onto their shoulder-blades.

 

Three weeks and no FBI agent has put them in handcuffs nor shot them on sight. How easily one slips through the hands of justice: Money to pay for their visit in this private clinic, and probably the silence of the doctors, and, of course, fake passports. It's as easy as that. The passports, Will notices, have been made four years ago.

 

Will tries not to think of them. His wife. His child. He does not dare speak their names. Not even in his mind. They will go to Oregon to the parents of her first husband. They will be safe.

There is guilt gnawing at him. There is also, sickeningly, relief.

 

—Where do you want to go? Hannibal asks him. His voice is not at all strong. Will wants to claw into it and lay himself to sleep inside the wound.

—Far away, he breathes.

 

 

**v.**

 

They take a flight from Washington to Buenos Aires with a transfer in São Paulo without complications. Their faces must be all over the place—or perhaps they aren't. Perhaps they simply are presumed dead. What sweet and easy hope. Foolish. Either way. Will has grown a beard and Hannibal wears glasses, they both dress casually and no-one looks at them twice. When they arrive at the airport in Buenos Aires, Will shaves off the beard again.

From there they travel Northwest taking an overnight bus to Córdoba. They lie down in their flat seats in the first class. There's a TV, a DVD player and hot dinner is served with champagne and wine.  Exhaustion weighs them down. They sleep most of the ride.

In the early hours of morning Will wakes. The whole bus is quiet, only the steady buzz of the motors. He turns his head towards Hannibal. His face softened by sleep, high cheekbones, the exotic curve of his lips, fine lines of age. Hannibal's eyes flutter open. They look at each other.

Will is not sure how this can be real. Tentatively, he reaches out.

His fingers brush Hannibal's. Hannibal's breath hitches. Then, carefully, he strokes his thumb over Will's knuckles.

Behind Hannibal a red sun breaks through the clouds.

 

They take a taxi from the station. The early morning traffic is thick and they need longer than Hannibal told him they would. Will looks outside as the city passes them by, but all Will sees is the stag like a drop of night reflected in the window. They drive uphill and Northwest where the buildings are reminiscent of English country houses with their old-fashioned splendour, some are half-timbered, some are newer. There is no consistency in the architecture. A flower-garden left to its own devices. Inelegant. Will wonders if they will stay here for very long.

They stop in front of a villa, one of the old English country houses. They get out and Hannibal pulls a set of keys from his jacket pocket. Will takes both their suitcases while Hannibal unlocks the door.

There's dust in the air. White sheets over the furniture.

—We can move closer to the centre if you don't like it. _San Vicente_ perhaps, Hannibal says. Will closes the door behind him and puts their suitcases down.

—I just want to take a shower.

—Of course.

 

When Will comes out of the shower he finds Hannibal reading downstairs. He has not taken off the sheets, just sits there with Goethe's _Faust_ held in his right hand.

—We should dress our wounds, Hannibal says without looking up.

Will yankes the sheet off a chair and sits down. Hannibal puts the book aside, and gets the necessary items. Will takes off the shirt he has not bothered to button up. His cheek has healed nearly without complication, but his stab wounds have opened up time and time again.

Carefully Hannibal takes off Will's bandages and cleans his wounds with nimble, gentle fingers. They don't speak. When he is done, Will does the same for him. Hannibal has taught him how. His bullet wound is still an obstacle, but no longer a danger. Will is not sure how to feel.

He can hear the stag exhale behind him. A tremble in the air. He can barely breathe.

Suddenly touch. Hannibal's fingers graze his cheek.

He looks up, into his eyes.

Breathes out. A heartbeat. Then he averts his gaze.

Hannibal's fingers leave his skin.

The silence fills his throat, blooms in his rib cage. Make my bones into air and sound, he thinks. Change me.

—Stay with me, Hannibal says quietly.

—Where else would I go? Will murmurs, echo, memory, mock.

—Please, Hannibal says.

Will huffs a bitter laugh.

—We have died, Hannibal says, What you're experiencing is rebirth. And birth is always painful. You are afraid of what you are and whom you have become. Don't be.

Will looks up again, still kneeling in front of him and gets up slowly. Hannibal rises with him.

—I made a wish when we fell, Will says, a smile turning up the corner of his lips.

—You wished to die.

Will steps closer and turns his head towards Hannibal, leaning in.

—I still do, he whispers into Hannibal's ear. Hannibal does not look at him and Will knows his stab has found its aim. He leaves Hannibal with that.

He takes both their suitcases and carries them upstairs, putting down Hannibal's in front of the other bedroom. They will need a lot of things. Money they have, or rather, Hannibal has. He has given Will half of their cash and one of the credit cards. It feels wrong. He will look for work first thing after they have cleared their papers.

 

When he comes downstairs in the evening, Hannibal is cooking in the kitchen. The smell of chicken, shrimp, sausage and rice fills the air.

—You're making Jambalaya, Will says.

—Yes. I have never been to New Orleans, but I...

They look at each other. Will is not sure who starts smiling first.

 

After dinner they have another glass of wine. The air is still warm and they sit on the terrace, both chairs turned towards the night. The bitterness of the morning still lingers.

—When we fell, Hannibal says quietly without looking at him, I could only think of you in my arms.

Will remembers the moment and heir momentum. Hannibal's warmth. The pain. The blood. The sea. Hannibal's scent and his breath and the feeling of falling before they fell.

—I wanted to die _with you_ , Will murmurs.

Hannibal turns his head and in the twilight his face is softened by shadows. Their gazes meet like blade and bone. Leaving marks. How Hannibal had yielded to him. Had he seen their chapel collapse in the dimness of dawn?

They sit there a while longer, with only their heartbeats between them.

 

 

**vi.**

 

The Great Red Dragon goes down on his knees as they rend him. Every breath electric, every movement and they move as one. Hungry. Desperate. Joyous.

Will can hear the sound of tearing flesh, blood gushing out, the tang of iron, and oh the rising sun. The terror of its beauty. Of their hunt.

Will wakes with hard breaths and excitement uncoiling in his belly. Next to his bed stands the stag, its antlers bloody.

 

One month has passed since they have arrived in Córdoba. Hannibal has taken up a professorship at the _Universidad Nacional de Córdoba_ in literature while Will fixes cars and boat motors in a shop down town. By now he has learned enough Spanish to roughly communicate. It is nothing like Biloxi or Greenville and yet it is familiar work. Taking things apart and putting them back together.

They have been exceptionally lucky. Then again, luck seems to stick to Hannibal.

They have stepped from one life into another. At night Will feels for his scars.

 

Sometimes Hannibal picks him up from his shop in the evening. Then they walk the streets together. The devil likes to wander in the city of bells. Hannibal looks at the churches with hunger gleaming in his maroon eyes. And Will, he feels it too.

 

In those hours before dawn Will sees himself through Hannibal's eyes: Gleaming and cruel, with sharp justice clasped between his fingers. Dressed in the breathing effulgence of flames, an olive wreath twisted into his hair. He blinds Hannibal, and Hannibal averts his eyes.

They speak to each other in low voices as not to wake the world that they have lulled into slumber. Hannibal tells him of Dante's _Purgatorio_ , the ascend of the mountain until they enter Eden, the earthly paradise. About the two rivers running from one well, Lethe and Eunoe.

—Lethe will make you forget all your sins, Hannibal says. Will sips his wine, head tilted towards the starless sky. Feverish clouds. The glow of orange street-lights along the road like fireflies pierced in sequence.

—Euone will give you back the memories of your good deeds, Hannibal continues. His voice is raw around the edges, accent stronger now. Will tilts his head and looks at him.

—There is fire striving towards the first sphere of heaven, Hannibal says. Again, Will sees himself in Hannibal's eyes. Sparks dart off him like seething iron, stars expiring in the darkness to their feet.

—When you look at me, what do you see? Will asks.

—Eudaimonia.

Will snorts unceremoniously and pours more wine into Hannibal's empty glass. Hannibal looks up at him, delighted.

 

Will goes to bed first. Quietly he ascends the stairs. He passes by the third empty bedroom and tries not to think.

Inside his room he sinks down against the door, head laid back, eyes unseeing. Something unspeakable swells in his chest. He prays the morning may never come.

 

The next day he throws some of his lunch to a stray dog outside the shop. The dog is filthy and a scar twists the left side of her jaw. After she has devoured the scarps of Will's home-made lunch she comes closer. A jolt of pain pierces his chest as he wonders what has become of his dogs. If _she_ takes good care of them. Nausea wells up in his stomach and he leaves the rest of his lunch to the stray, gets up and goes back into the shop to continue his work.

When he leaves that evening the stray is still there, sleeping around the corner. She wakes at his step and follows him to the train station. Will decides to take a taxi and takes the stray with him.

Hannibal isn't home when he arrives. Will doesn't want to think about what that might mean. Instead he takes the dog into their garden and washes her with the garden hose.

By the time she is clean and halfway dry he hears the front door open. Hannibal walks in, carrying two jute grocery bags. For a moment he stares at the dog, then at Will. He goes into the kitchen and Will hears him say: —I guess I'm cooking for three.

He's not sure if that's annoyance in Hannibal's voice, but no other comment follows.

Will calls the stray Lori. She stays close to him, and has her tail between her legs whenever Hannibal advances. She'll relax, Will hopes.

They have to take her to the vet as soon as they can. Lori sleeps in his room. After a week she sleeps at the end of his bed. Some of her behaviour has to change, but Will has had dogs for nearly all his life and he knows how to handle it. The more docile she becomes, the more Hannibal starts to warm towards her.

 

Reality is no longer a concept Will is sure how to grasp. The fabrics of meaning are dissolving. At night he sees the shadows of the stag's antlers thrown against the wall. At day he works, walks over _Plaza San Martín_ with Hannibal, sometimes they stop in front of the cathedral. The floor plan is based on a church in Rome, Hannibal tells him one day. Words and wishes linger in the air. Possibilities.

Those moments. They remind him of what they have left behind. And what has brought them here. The Great Red Dragon's roar still echoes all around them. The potent stench of his blood.

And yet Hannibal hasn't killed anyone since. Will wonders if he wants to.

 

Liszt's _Funérailles_ play sombrely when Will shuts the door behind him and walks into the living room. Hannibal sits on the couch, book in hand, glass of wine on the table. Now he puts the book down and picks up the glass.

—I was invited to a dinner party. Should we go? Hannibal asks and looks at him over his shoulder. Will doesn't answer. Slowly Hannibal gets up and moves in with the rising melody. Smooth like some creature of breathing shadows. Will does not step back. Instead he looks into Hannibal's eyes. It is them, and the funeral march. What is this life they have entered, of such silences. Within, a primeval heartbeat resonates.

—Why not, Will says finally. A glimmer in the dark of Hannibal's eyes.

—We should get dressed, then, Hannibal says.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks goes to [angelas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelas) who betas this and to my friend Alex who provided me with medical information.  
> The descriptions of Will through Hannibal's eyes are based on how Dante perceives Beatrice in the Divine Comedy.
> 
> Started writing this after watching TWOTL, had it on hold for quite a while but this should be over soon. Posting it now to keep going 'cause this fic means a lot to me. Will forever be in love with this show and these characters.
> 
> Please let me know what you think!


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